Trail
by Videl Exumai
Summary: In a world divided, where life and death rest as intimately as lovers, a single soul fights not for power, riches or glory, but for love. AU - H/Hr - Slight HP/GW
1. Chapter 1

_**Trail**_

_**Cycle of Three**_

_**By – Videl Exumai**_

_**Prologue – iSpy**_

High Vennegoor Lucius swallowed as before him the vast steel doors began to part without consented order. Their only prompting issuing from the unified command centring from the chemical will of his thoughts and the electronic, physical command of the F–T–U–V chip implanted beneath the flesh of his left hand.

The F–T–U–V chip was a necessity for all System citizens. Implanted at the first dawn of birth, none southron born escaped _The Rite_, themselves, their very beings linked to the extreme technical centre of the System, known nought by the citizens, but known to those of true knowledge as _The Soul_. Every action was monitored; every movement scrutinised, behaviour patterns studied and recorded, so as to ensure the true safety and supreme control of The System.

The doors before Lucius opened unto stark, raw darkness, but from deep within the depths of the shadows their issued an intense, weighted energy, the very air thick with the presence of what existed beyond the gloom.

At Lucius's shoulders they settled, with the effortless grace of sky dwellers, but with a form as alien to the air as a sea dweller upon the shore. Sphere-like, flawless, the Spyfs were utterly faultless in their appearance; the only break in their metallic grey sheen stemmed from the stark pin prick of crimson which was their all-seeing oculus.

The twin Spyfs each turned their eyes upon Lucius, scrutinising his actions, studying the hidden meanings behind his posture and body language, seeking signs of rebellion and disloyalty. Each of these eyes enticed a sense of foreboding. Lucius drew in a deep, steadying breath as he prepared himself for the inspection which was soon to follow.

A Spyf, small, terrible, unnatural in its grace, drifted before Lucius, settled itself before him. Lucius physically shuddered at the presence of the machine, a reaction not lost on either of the two orbs, as they relayed this reaction back to _The Soul_.

Whispers were issued in quiet corners, corners where people believed the civilised dare not venture, where they believed,_ foolishly_, the Spyfs did not spy. Whispers that these dreaded orbs watched not just with their eye, but were in possession of powers far greater. Powers greater and far more frightening than simple sight. Powers, Lucius knew, to be utterly, and inhumanly true.

Lucius drew himself up proudly as the Spyf before him drifted ever closer, turning its eye before the High Vennegoor's twins of its own. He readied his very being. He knew of the penalty of what befell any citizen who failed the S-A-T-S inspection. Lucius gritted his teeth, steeled his resolve and forced himself to fall into the chaotic depths of the Spyfs eye.

Lucius's psyche screamed, his mind, his very will smashed, shattered with the force of a battering ram. A jagged, serrated probe began to invade the chambers of his mind, streaming through memories with agonizing precision.

A cry tore from Lucius's lips, tears streamed from his eyes as the probe entered his haunted memories. Once more he was forced back, the memory, everything so vivid, the feel of emotions so real that no longer was he High Vennegoor Lucius, but he had returned once more to the agony of his youth.

_He bore no name, for no common citizen of the System bore the distinction of a title. Instead he existed simply as First Born. First Born, heart wrenched and fearful, lay curled within the corner of his frugal bed chamber. Desperately he clapped his young hands to his ears, attempting to drive away the terrible sounds of agony he could hear from she, she of whom he loved so passionately: His dearest sister. Broken, molested, pleading for the mercy of her tormentor, though, as had happened so many times before, she would not be granted such mercies._

_Rage heated within the young mans' heart, an intense, searing fury. He knew not when the impulse had come. It happened almost instinctively; saw himself as if through a dream. He felt the knife in his hand, sharp, deadly, beautiful. First Born stood outside the bedroom of his beloved sister, heard her terrible sobs, her pleas. His will steeled, he entered._

_The chamber was dark, moonlit, void of the love and affection he often felt in this room. The monster lay over her, shirt strewn, repulsive, primal. The young man's heart clenched in fury, black rage filled his soul. He stabbed over and over, the monster screamed, agony, pain evident. Blood soiled the young man, his clothes, skin, tainting the flesh of his beloved sister. He refused to relent; on and on he stabbed. Only the feel of his sister's gentle arms drew him away from the heated blood lust which had claimed him._

_Together, blood marring each of the two siblings; they held each other close, watched as before them the monster, their father died. _

After what felt like a lifetime the Spyf finally relented. Lucius staggered, weakened, willowed from mental exhaustion as he struggled to breathe.

Lucius forced himself to stand straight, knew of his duty. The two Spyfs hovered before him, ready to lead him forward into the chamber. Slowly Lucius drew the long, ornate ceremonial dagger from his waist. He straightened his carriage, steadied himself, readied his heart, his soul, and prepared himself for murder.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Angel of Music**_

He knew her as Granger: Lady Hermione Jean Granger, or so was the title used during her introduction. Harry pressed the knuckle of his work hand to his teeth, a product of nervous tension and suppressed emotion, long since accumulated through his youth, carried on into manhood.

He studied this Lady Granger with quiet caution, his shaded emerald green eyes drifting over her fine form, outlined, accentuated by the tightness of her leather cladding. Granger knew that he was admiring her physical charms; knew the gleam seen in the eyes of the sexes, both men and women, eyes wrought with lust, admiration, jealousy, knew of the stirrings which her charms evoked, deep within the depths, the loins. So was the price of beauty, a price both thankfully paid, and cursed.

Granger absently slid one of her elegant hands down the firm, shapeliness of her thigh, itself clad in fine, figure hugging leather, heightening the semblance of her form. Her gaze was slight, herself hiding a smile behind her free hand. It was a smile of satisfaction. Her instincts had been correct.

Harry was enticed by her charms, she could read that, but something was different about this one. His looks, his gazes, they weren't so much as testosterone charged adoration, more filled with heated challenge.

Eyes of jet black darkness seared into Harry, though they came not from Granger, her eyes one of intense, deep brown. No, this deep gaze came from the youngling stationed at Granger's right hand. A girl child, of youthful years, though her face held neither the delights, nor innocents of youth. She gazed towards Harry, her visage stern, intense, wrought with a fire of challenge behind the depths of her obsidian orbs.

The youngling's gaze was unceasing, herself filled with a fire so deep, so intense it was unnerving to witness such, found within one of years so youthful. Together both Granger and the girl child wore matching fingerless gloves, fashioned from beaten hide. Though where Granger's apparel radiated confidence and allure, the girl child's simple, long sleeved tunic, united with her woollen britches, did much to display a strikingly opposite personality. Harry gazed from Granger to the girl child in equal measure, pondering what could be required of him, and from so alluring a couple.

He knew little of their story, none from their own words, his understandings built upon assumptions and guesses. They went beneath the banner of Entertainers, formed as one of several traveling Drifter Trains who had crossed the plains of the Unclaimed North, to bring the beauty of wares, wonder, story and music to those of simple lives.

Harry, could still remember, remember the very first time Granger had taken to the stage of the Inn.

A black leather strip had encircled her brow that day, restraining her voluminous dark hair. Her hair rippled; tumbled down her body, possessing the look and allure of sheer silk. Clad in fine leather, at her waist was carried an exquisite artic white electric guitar. Harry could still feel it, the gentle, subtle warmth he had felt ripple through him, his breath stalled, his heartbeat a cadence within him. Granger stood seemingly transfixed in meditation before the expectant crowd.

Slowly, behind her, her youthful drummer gave a gentle tap on her trap set. At this sound so did Granger erupt into expedition. The music was so sudden and sweet that it struck not only at the beat of the heart, but so much deeper, deep to the very soul. The song, the music was an agonised, instrumental ballad, unheard in Styria since the rise of the System.

Music itself was outlawed, not crushed completely from the hearts of the world, but within System society music was only created, allowed to be, only if it conformed to legal regulations: No emotion, no feelings, just pure admiration and worship towards the System. Music such as the music Harry now heard, so heartfelt, so intense, wrought with emotions so strong, it was unbearable in its beauty. Tears brightened Harry's eyes, seeped unchallenged down his face as finally, melodically, the song ended.

The Inn erupted into a volley of applause. Offering the crowd a bow Granger turned, proceeded to the back of the stage, allowing the storytellers to take their entrance. Harry could not hold himself strong, knew he must speak with this Granger. Inside he felt a stirring, a wrench. Forcing his way through the crowd Harry sighted Granger, sat stationed upon her large Gig amplifier, absently strumming a melody. But, before he could even approach her his trek was intercepted by the presence of the largest man he had ever seen.

Tall, broad, brow paled except for a thick braid of hair formed at the base of the figures scalp, the hulking behemoth stood before Granger with the air of a sentinel. His eyes narrowed, scornful with suspicion. Harry heard a soft, trill chuckle and saw Granger place a comforting hand upon the giants shoulder.

"Easy Kingsley, let him through." The monster, Kingsley gazed at Granger, back towards Harry, then with a final, scornful farrow of brow, stepped aside to allow the young man passage. Granger's eyes rolled playfully, turning to face Harry.

"Do not mind Kingsley," her voice was strong, confident, pleasurable in its gayety. "He is a sweet heart really, believe me, there are more things to worry about than him, like coarse fingers."

She held up her slender fingers, wiggled them in expedition, showing that indeed the tips of her fingers were thick with a course, hard crusting, a result of her pleasurable labour beneath the strings of her instrument.

"Your music," Harry's voice faltered, broke, weighted beneath the sheer intensity of the emotions he felt within. "I feel things I've never felt before, when you play."

"A compliment," Granger's eyebrows raised, the tips of her mouth lifted slightly. "Music was once a way of expressing more than just simple reverence. Once, music was used to express emotions now supressed by the System. Without emotion we would be nothing more than machines."

"Emotions…?" Harry whispered feeling the intense stirrings within him once more. Granger sat down upon her Gig amplifier, gazing towards Harry through long, dark lashes. She raked him with her eyes, pressed the button to her amp. She began to play once more. The music was turned low, low enough so as not to be heard by none but them. Softly she began to sing, such a sweet, beautiful voice that Harry believed he stood within the presence, not of a mere woman, but an angel, an angel of music.

Oh how once I dreamed

I dreamed of love

I dreamed of living

How I spent my whole life dreaming

Here and now

Once was will be

Was once a dream

A dream of love

How soon we'll see

The stars change for love

The sun shines for us

All and now

Just dream of us

Granger gazed towards Harry to sight the tears in his eyes, the sheer impact of her song, the strength of her words, speaking more than any healer ever could. She smiled and offered him her hand.

"I can offer you more than just music, if you're willing to help me."

"What do you want?" questioned Harry his heart beating a fresh with renewed emotions. Gingerly Harry took her hand, allowing her to lead him to the rear of the Inn, drawn to the private meeting quarters. This chamber used only under the steepest of prices. Granger opened the door wherein their sat the youngling, eyes dark, ominous, deadly.

Harry felt a new emotion, alien, frightening: fear. He gazed from she, the youngster to Granger who smiled and offered him entrance. He set foot forward his fate sealed with a single footstep.

Now Harry sat across from Granger and the youngling. A bottle of fine liquor and three drinking vessels complimented the meeting, resting upon a small oak table between the company. Granger leaned forward, uncorked the bottle and proceeded to pour the drink to each of the bowls. Upon lifting their vessels Granger offered Harry a salute.

"Hosts first sip." Granger chimed, she and the youngling each took the first sip of the drink. Harry eyed each of them so. Once more sighting another piece of social breeding which did not comply with both the modern, nor the wayfarers of which Granger proclaimed to belong. This piece of social breeding was once common practice amidst the ancient northlands, used as a protection of the common folk from deceivers and death.

"You're no merchant." Harry breathed speaking his suspicions. Granger's smile was sly, her bright eyes sparkling.

"I see you are no fool," Granger's visage grew chill, mirthless. "Understand that I take you under the strictest confidence. Should you divulge my words to any other, I shall have no choice but to remove you from the earth."


	3. Chapter 3

_**She Moves On**_

She held him endearingly; the scent of livestock and graft clung to her, as intimately as fragrant perfume would a lady of distinction. Though to Sail, this did none but heighten the appeal of his beloved Anchor.

"Speak to me, Bonnie Boy," Anchor breathed, her breath brushing intimately against the skin of his cheek, while gently so did she toy with a stray strand of his long, dark locks, winding it intimately about her first finger. "What troubles you so?"

"My dear," Sail sighed, his lips coming to tenderly kiss her brow, while his touch gently explored her supple curves. "Do you seek to oath-break me?"

"Never," Anchor drew back from him, his words issuing a wound to her heart. She gazed up at him, himself standing several inches above her, his arms kept about her close. Fondly her hands caressed the strength of his chest, laced in simple, work worn cotton, herself falling lovingly into the depths of his shaded green eyes.

"I simply wish to help you; I know you had council with the merchant lass Granger. Ever since you have worn a troubled shroud, I seek to ease your burden."

"Then know, I swore an oath never to divulge her words to another, not even you, my dearest lass. Do not trouble yourself with my burdens."

"Sail, we are one," spoke Anchor, Ginny was her name to any other than him, they each referring to the pet-names they had bestowed upon each other. "What troubles you is mine. So is the way of love."

A hand full of reeds protruded from the tie of Anchors rope belt. In drawing a number of these, Anchor proceeded to unite she and Sail's hands in a simple bond of unity and love.

"Together, you and I, remember?" so prompted Anchor, a smile brightening her work grimed visage.

"I remember," promised Sail, himself reaching to caress her cheek.

Anchor spoke determinedly.

"I shall speak with this entertainer Granger. I shall understand the weight upon your shoulders. I shall share your burden."

With a chaste kiss Anchor drew away, the reeds uniting their hands unravelling, though they each remained united in spirit. With beauty and geniality Anchor smiled, stepping from Sail's cabin, leaving him to float amidst a stormy ocean of thoughts, his heading still hazed and obscure.

The news of the merchant's arrival in Candonia undulated across the Highlands, as that of the ripples born from the disturbance of a quiet pool. Folks from across the glens began to converge upon the tiny region. Clansmen from the surrounding crofts of Acair, Fyfe and Lyall braved the mountain passes and hostel wild lands, all to glimpse the merchant's wares and wonders.

With the arrival of so many strangers to the region social conflicts and clan deviations were soon to follow. The once peaceful and welcoming region became the unfortunate venue of grievances and troubles from their neighbours. These troublesome brawlers were all but trifles, most willing to simply enjoy the hearty atmosphere of the trader's camp.

Arranged in a bright arch, festooned with drapes, awnings, streamers a colour, the trader's booths and travel huts were pitched. Amidst the simple if not uncommon items, commodities, luxuries were also to be viewed, kept purposely hidden away, displayed only at serious request, at the utmost privacy.

Harry wandered amongst the bustling crowd, eying trinkets and treats with polite interest. Many of the trader's items tempted the buyer in him, but he kept a tight grip upon both his hand and purse, which held only a little Slater. Casually he savoured an apple wandering absently amidst the crowd, in search of Ginny.

A trader caught Harry's eye from amass of patrons gathered about his booth. He was a tall, supercilious fellow, adorned in lavish finery. At his lip was worn a pencil moustache, meticulously styled, groomed to near flawlessness. Harry turned when his eye met that of the trader, unwilling to have his purse tempted, attempting to meld amidst the bustle of buyers.

"Good sir, good sir!" so called a voice from off behind Harry, who turned, not knowing if the hale was intended for himself or otherwise, sighted the trader hastening towards him. Instinctively Harry drew back, folded his arms protectively across his chest, cautious, weary. The trader smiled and offered a courtly bow.

"Is there anything you wish?" Harry questioned of the trader, his gaze stern, mistrustful.

"Sir, there is something I wish you to see," spoke the trader, his voice aloft with cheer, "If you would?"

The trader gestured towards his booth. Harry, hesitant, followed the fellow in lead. The trader brought Harry to a splendid, ornate tent. The tent was richly decorated with a number of differing strips, adorned with fabric of numerous colours. Drawing towards the entrance of the tent, so did the trader gesture for Harry to enter. Caution corrupted his manners however, himself choosing the safety of the nightly air, than the confinement of a trader's tent, where an ambush could take place far easier. With a polite nod of acquiescence the trader entered.

Moments past, Harry drummed his fingers against the exposed flesh of his arm while in waiting. It was several minutes until the trader returned. He stepped from the tent carrying a sizeable something, bound with rope, wrapped within a worn, ancient cloth. It was this item that the trader presented to Harry. The weight of the object was comfortable, weighted but un-burdensome.

"I… I have very little money in which to pay you." Harry spoke gently, though the trader shook his head in response.

"It has no price," the trader's voice was laced with slight agony. "Long has this prize rested in my possession. Though I was long told that the one who was to truly possess this prize would enter my life one day. I believe I have found that one."

Harry swallowed, looking from the package to the trader, his heart torn with indecision. Gingerly he accepted the wrapped something, feeling a solid form beneath his fingertips, beneath the bindings. The trader stroked his moustache gently as he offered Harry a gentle smile. He breathed.

"So she moves on." The feel of the traders eyes upon Harry grew weighted, as he stepped away, into the now enveloping shade of night.


	4. Chapter 4

_**You Always Had Me**_

Harry, lost to a barrage of conflicting emotions, the strongest of which a sickening disbelief, carried his newly laden gift out of the core of the traders pitch. Away from eyes, prying and curious so did he come to rest, settled himself at the base of a great pine, itself one of a number of evergreens grown naturally amidst the outskirts of the village of Candonia.

Beneath a great tree so did Harry settle, rested upon the rim of the trail leading south, onward unto the valleys and wilderness, whispered in respect as: _The Heart_. Seated upon a downy cushion of growth and fallen needles, Harry allowed the weight of the packaged _something_, to rest upon his thighs. Gazing down at the age worn wrappings Harry swallowed; his apprehension paramount. Harry's heart began to beat, skip, heighten with anticipation and nerves. His mouth grew dry, he swallowed but with difficulty, all that was left to him was to unwrap the bindings.

Slowly, Harry began. With every knot loosened, every gentle slip of material, the majesty and horror of what lay before him was unveiled. Harry gasped, as with a gentle wisp of breeze, the air lifted the final length of cloth away, itself flitting upon the wind, exposing Harry's prize, and greatest fear: A sword.

Harry reeled, emotion, terror, fear lancing his heart as he gazed upon the splendid weapon. The blade was elfin, magnificent, thrust into a scabbard bound in black leather, itself inlayed with beautifications of rich, bright gold. The pommel was wrapped with a grip of smooth leather. Unworn, flawless, offering a comfortable grip for the wielder. Veins of bright woven silver intertwined with fine dark onyx to grasp a deep, bright sapphire settled at the height of the weapon, itself filled with streaks of streaming light.

The sword was both beautiful and terrible to behold. A crash of memories burst through Harry's internal defences, rendering tears from him as he recoiled fearfully from the fine sword, as one would a dreaded viper. He cried out, himself tossed, his sea raging. The impact of a memory struck him. Roaring his pain in agony, so did the memories return, felt the feeling of blood renew, taint his touch, unsighted but felt. Desperately Harry reached out for any kind of rescue, tossed between two worlds: a destructive, vile entity which warred with his soul and his search for peace.

He heard no words, felt only her presence, sensed her, the anchorage of herself to him.

Anchor settled herself down next to her beloved Sail, softly she caressed his brow, accustom to the terrors of which he endured, terror inflicted with the torment of the past. Lifting her voice Anchor began to sing, seeking to bring comfort to her dearest. So sweet was her melody, so heartfelt her words, that the demons which plagued her dear Sail began to find solace.

_Through all your darkness… _

_Let you find your light _

_I'm here… with you, beside you_

_Let my love guide you_

_Feel… your freedom, escape from shadows fears_

_I'm here, my love, beside you_

_To ease the pain within you_

_Oh my love… every waking moment_

_Together we shall love_

_One heart… one lifetime_

_Now and always_

_I'm here… with you beside you_

_Oh let my love guide you_

Gradually, with the caress of her gentle touch, the power of her words, Sail's soul calmed. Trembling, tearful, filled with renewed hope so did he return back, his body caught in convulsions. Sail forced composure into his self, wiping his tears forcefully from his eyes. Straightening his bearing Sail, Harry, shielded himself back behind his defences. Turning so did he come to face Ginny; his Anchor. Sail's eyes spoke more than anything he could ever say. Anchor absently smoothed the hem of her dress as Sail leaned towards her, lightly his lips found her cheek in a chaste kiss.

"Thank you." said Sail, a light smile touched her lips. Fondly Anchor caressed her cheek, turned towards him. Sail rested his hand lightly upon hers. They spoke not for many a moment each of them lost in the comfort of each other.

Finally Sail broke the silence.

"Did you speak with Lady Granger?"

Slowly, Anchor nodded.

"Very polite lass," Anchor mused, the chaos of his torment seemingly lost to differing talk. As was always the way, never would he speak of what troubled him, all she could do was comfort him, offer hope to his soul.

"She even addressed me as Lady. I understand now, she is not a merchant is she?"

Despairingly Sail shook his head, his visage shading with memory; his fingers absently caressed the body of the sword which he had pulled back to his being.

"No, she and her band resist the advancement of The System. She seeks people to fight for their cause."

Her agreement was laboured, troubled as was his own. Sail's voice willowed beneath emotion, an emotion he was ashamed to express.

"You are afraid." stated Anchor, speaking of the emotion he found so terrible. Sail nodded burying his head into his hands, shame evident.

"You need not be ashamed of fear," comforted Anchor, speaking to Sail through a veil of his unruly hair. "You need not feel unmanned by such a natural emotion. I would be terrified of you if you felt no fear. It proves you are human."

"Human…?" Harry sighed, drawing aside his wealth of hair bringing his gaze to her. In that moment Sail felt closer to Anchor than he ever had for any other, taking her hands in his, softly he kissed her palms in a tender gesture of affection. A light smile played over each of them.

"I am not leaving with her," pledged Sail his tone strong, certain. "I belong here; I want a home, wee ones. I seek to find peace. But mostly, I want you."

Ginny smiled, a warm, slight smile. Slowly she drew in close to her Sail, her kiss gentle, laced with intimate promise, a kiss he returned with tenderness.

"You always had me," so stated Anchor, resting herself into Sail's embrace. Together they each cast their gaze towards the heavens, hands enveloped together as they watched the dawning of Starfall.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Fear of the Dark**_

Bars of moonlight issued through rents within the structures mortar, faults cast from the erosion of time. The pearlescent moon's gentle touch softly stirred a slumbering Sail, lifting him from the tormented depths of dreams.

In tenderness and need, so did Sail stretch his arm across the fabric bound, straw filled mattress of his bed, seeking the warmth and feel of his bed mate. His eyes opened, once sleepily, now concerned as beneath the touch of his fingertips, Sail felt, not the soft warmth of Anchor, instead coarse cotton and uneven straw was all he felt.

Slowly he sat up, the wool and fur coverlets slipping slightly from his frame. So was unveiled a form wrought with the agonies and marring of a thousand scars, themselves the testaments of a life wrought with torture and war. Now, even here, so far from those who had pained him, the memories found in every blemish continued to hinder his quest for peace.

Sliding out from beneath the blankets Sail pulled on his loose-fitting trousers, stepping from the bedchamber into the adjoining lounge, in search of his dearest. She had gone no great distance. Standing at the window of Sail's cabin so did she gaze out upon the nightly sky. A cotton gown enshrouded her, fixed and secured with a simple tie about her frame. Moonlight rippled silver amidst the streams of her auburn hair, itself held back by a simple, patterned strip of Voile: a gift from her love.

Sail approached her with light tread. She seemed to sense his coming, herself offering him a slight glance and a warm smile. Sail drew in behind his dearest lass, his touch, laced with tenderness as his arms enveloped her. His touch came to rest at her waist, caressed tenderly, feeling the beauty of her frame.

They exchanged no words, none were needed, instead they each took in the heavenly glory, a picturesque vision seemly just for them.

"You seem burdened." questioned Sail, Anchor sighed, her hands coming to rest upon her beloveds touch, filled with endearment.

"Father troubles me," Anchor confided, "Mother wishes I marry for love, but I know father thinks more for the prospects of the family when he thinks of my union tie."

"You worry that my lack of kind will hinder us?"

"Slightly," Anchor mused, "I'm concerned that father will not give us his blessing."

"We can talk to him," stated Sail, "We can explain our feelings, how we feel for each other, surely he will not stand in the way of your happiness. That is, if you are happy with me?"

Anchor smiled, turned in his embrace, threading her arms about his neck. She gazed deep into the shaded, jade depths she knew so well.

"I love you," she whispered softly, "You and me, remember?"

"I-"

The door to the cabin burst open. Harry drew away from his spouse, instincts primed for combat. Surprise reeled him at the sight of the terror strewn woman before him. Lady Granger slammed the door closed behind her, breathing desperately, her weight resting against the door as if it were a seal of salvation.

"What in the name of-?"

"Please!" Granger's voice was laced with fear, shrill, terrified. In haste she rushed towards Harry, gripping his arm desperately, her clutch filled with fright, eyes wrought with panic.

"Hide me, please!" Granger shook him, emphasising her need for sanctuary. Confusion rocked Harry but he could not deny the compassion he felt within.

"With me!" stated Harry. Forcefully he ushered Granger to the conjoined kitchen, therein rested the larder: an expansive, dead bolted cold cupboard. Once within he opened a small section of the wooden floor, which led to a man-made tunnel beneath the earth, Harry's own fail safe for friends and loved ones. Thankfully Granger hurried down the shadowy tunnel, her demeanour as timid as a kitten. Harry turned towards Ginny, his love, his Anchor.

"And you." Sail ordered his tone stern.

"But I…"

"Now!"

Never had Sail used such a tone with her. Herself, sensing his concern, lightly touched his heart, before she herself hurried within the tunnel after Granger. Harry sealed the door behind them, bolting the door and wrapping the key about his neck on a thin chain. Harry knew that Anchor had access to a spare key, it hung on a bracket on the opposite side of the larder; so as to ensure they would not be trapped within the exit-less tunnel. Drawing in one deep breath, he felt the air grow cold. Instinct flared. His sword was needed.


End file.
